A few days ago, I spent nearly an hour on the phone with a former student I had more than twenty-five years ago. During our conversation, he shared something that caught me off guard. He and his friends still tell stories about their teachers and coaches; stories about the moments that shaped them, challenged them, and helped them see themselves differently.
As we talked, I reminded him of things he had accomplished that he had almost forgotten: his discipline in the classroom, the leadership he showed with teammates, and the determination he brought to difficult moments. He was a champion on and off the field. Listening to him reflect on those memories reminded me of something every educator should consider:
Schools tell stories about students every day.
Some stories inspire belief. Others limit possibility. Either way, those stories shape how students see themselves and how others see them too.
That conversation stayed with me when I recently met with a group of five students participating in an action research project through a state university. When we first sat down together, they were frustrated. They felt like their project lacked direction and weren’t sure how to move forward. As we talked through their work, however, a different story began to emerge. Their project didn’t lack purpose; it reflected perseverance. These students were trying to solve real problems for their classmates, and their willingness to keep working through uncertainty said more about their character than any polished presentation ever could.
By the end of our conversation, the students hadn’t completely redesigned their project. They simply adjusted their approach and walked away with renewed clarity. What changed most wasn’t the project itself, but the narrative surrounding it.
Too often, educators unintentionally fall into deficit narratives. Phrases like “these kids just don’t care” or “they lack motivation” surface in moments of frustration. While those comments may reflect real challenges, they can also quietly shape expectations and beliefs about what students are capable of becoming. When those narratives take hold, struggle begins to define identity.
Changing the story does not mean ignoring reality. Students face real obstacles, and schools work through complex challenges every day. However, telling strength-based stories ensures that struggle does not become the final chapter. It allows us to recognize perseverance, growth, creativity, and leadership that might otherwise go unnoticed.
Years ago, the rise of social media and other digital tools gave schools new ways to share student accomplishments in real time. Educators began posting photos of robotics competitions, performances, service projects, and classroom achievements. These moments helped reshape the public narrative about schools by showing what students were capable of accomplishing every day. In many ways, those stories reminded communities that schools are places of opportunity, growth, and possibility.
In today’s climate, when public trust in institutions often feels fragile, the stories we tell about students matter more than ever. Schools are often criticized during difficult social or economic moments, and those criticisms can overshadow the incredible work happening in classrooms, labs, gyms, and studios across the country.
That’s why educators must be intentional about the narratives we share.
Every school has students whose stories reflect resilience, curiosity, kindness, and determination. These stories don’t deny the challenges students face; they highlight the strengths students bring with them. When we tell those stories, whether in conversations with colleagues, families, or community members, we reinforce a simple but powerful belief: our students are capable of more than the labels sometimes placed on them.
The question for us is simple:
What stories are we telling about our students?
Because those stories have a way of lasting much longer than we might imagine.
Fixing Toxic Culture: Where It Starts
Most schools can name their values. Many can identify behaviors that bring those values to life. The real challenge, and opportunity, lies in consistently addressing the behaviors that contradict them.
Clarity requires the courage to stop initiatives, confront negative behaviors, and reflect on your own behaviors. If we say we value positive relationships, then dismissive tones, eye-rolling, and public criticism cannot be brushed off as personality quirks. If we say we believe in accountability, then chronic negativity without solutions cannot be excused as “just how they are.”
But here’s an important truth: for some educators, silence hasn’t come from indifference; it has come from experience. Speaking up may have felt unsafe. Naming concerns may have carried unintended consequences. In those contexts, silence can become a form of self-protection. That reality deserves acknowledgment.
Still, silence is rarely neutral. Sometimes it reflects acceptance; other times it reflects fear or fatigue. Either way, unaddressed patterns persist. I’ve found that culture begins to heal when we move from avoidance to attention.
Avoidance sounds like:
* “That’s just her personality.”
* “He’s been here a long time.”
* “I don’t want to make it worse.”
* “It’ll blow over.”
Attention sounds like:
* “Help me understand what’s behind that comment.”
* “That tone doesn’t align with how we treat one another.”
* “Let’s bring that concern into the room, not the hallway.”
* “How does this decision serve students?”
Addressing misalignment doesn’t require volume. It requires consistency. When we consistently and calmly name misalignment, while protecting dignity, patterns shift. Not overnight. Not without resistance. But over time, the message becomes unmistakable: this is who we are, and this is who we are becoming.
One of the most dangerous elements of unhealthy culture is normalization when sarcasm becomes expected. When disengagement becomes routine. When low expectations become the path of least resistance, what we tolerate becomes what we teach, both to staff and to students.
And here’s what I’ve learned: toxic culture often reflects systemic patterns more than individual flaws. It lives in the gap between our stated values and our daily practices. That gap is influenced by workload, communication structures, leadership modeling, and decision-making processes, not just personal attitudes.
Culture shifts happen at every level, in classrooms, hallways, team meetings, and informal conversations. Every educator has influence. Leaders must examine structures. Teachers must examine interactions. Teams must examine norms. The work is shared.
So where do you start?
Start small and specific because it’s more sustainable and creates genuine momentum.
Choose one value. Define three observable behaviors that demonstrate it. Then define three behaviors that undermine it. Share them with your team. Refer to them often. Reinforce them consistently. Adjust structures that contradict them. Then ask yourself a harder question:
* Where have I been silent?
* Where have I avoided naming misalignment?
* Where have our systems rewarded convenience over clarity?
* Where have we prioritized comfort over student-centered decisions?
Fixing toxic culture isn’t about calling people out. It’s about calling people up. It’s about protecting dignity while protecting standards. It’s about aligning our behavior and systems with the environment we want to create for students. Culture improves when we move from hoping to shaping. Not through fear. Not through force. But through clarity, attention, courage, and structural alignment.
If something feels off in your building, trust that instinct. Then begin where culture always begins: within your sphere of influence, your leadership decisions, your classroom norms, your team expectations. The encouraging truth is that culture is always shifting. With intentional attention and consistent action, it can shift toward the vision we hold for our students and staff.
Start with the pattern you’re willing to interrupt today.
Be GREAT,
Dwight
Shifting from “I Have To” to “I Get To”
How often do you think about your language; not your dialect, but the words you use to narrate your day? Language reveals more than attitude. It reveals whether we feel trapped or entrusted, entangled or empowered.
Lately, I’ve been paying closer attention to how often we say, “I have to”:
* I have to go to this meeting.
* I have to write this IEP.
* I have to review this data.
* I have to handle this situation…again.
When I hear it, I don’t hear laziness or negativity. I hear pressure, obligation, fatigue, and a quiet loss of autonomy. And when I catch myself saying it, I feel it too. When we live in “I have to” mode long enough, it drains our energy before the work even begins. That shift in energy affects how we show up and how we influence the climate of our room, office, school, and district.
One of the most powerful shifts we can make is subtle but profound: moving from “I have to” to “I get to.” This isn’t about pretending hard things aren’t hard. It’s about reclaiming choice within the reality we’re navigating.
Last week, I scheduled a necessary meeting about an ongoing issue. At first, I dreaded it because I kept telling myself I had to talk about this topic again. I also questioned if it was my lack of understanding or a unclear standard operating procedure. Either way, I was not looking forward to it. Then I caught and reminded myself that I’m not powerless. I get to choose how show up.
After a day or two, I reframed my language, and that reframing changed how I entered the meeting. My dread shifted to curiosity. The meeting became energetic, engaging, and productive because I approached it differently. I walked in thinking, I get to learn a better way with people who are just as curious, to reach our desired outcome.
In Be GREAT, I talk about the power of internal language shaping external impact. This was one of those moments. Culture doesn’t start in classrooms or conference rooms; it starts inside us. The language we use with ourselves quietly shapes the language we use with others, and that language becomes culture. When we operate from “I get to,” it shows up in how we greet students and colleagues, how we enter meetings, how we embrace new ideas, and how we respond to challenges we didn’t choose.
Energy is contagious, both positive and negative. At the same time, “I get to” is not about ignoring stress, workload, or systemic challenges. That would be naïve. It’s about choice within reality. We may not get to choose every task placed on our plate, but we do get to choose how we frame it, how we show up, and how much power it has over us.
Over the next two weeks, when you catch yourself saying “I have to,” pause. Take a breath. Move your body. Do whatever helps you reset. Then reframe it to “I get to…” and notice what shifts internally and relationally. Not every task will feel exciting, but many will feel lighter because choice changes energy.
Also, consider this: If students listened closely to how we talk about our work, what would they learn about adulthood? Would they hear resentment and obligation, or purpose and ownership? Our words are not just commentary. They are modeling. And modeling shapes culture.
Be GREAT,
Dwight
An Antidote to Chaos: Choosing Calm on Purpose
It’s been challenging to write this week.
To stay committed to my rhythm of sharing every couple of weeks when everything around us feels so chaotic, so disruptive, so divisive, and, at times, so deeply unsettling.
Between headlines of violence, community unrest, political tension, and the ongoing weight educators carry inside schools every day, I’ve felt a familiar dull ache in the pit of my stomach. Not panic. Not fear exactly. More like a quiet heaviness. A sense that things feels louder, faster, and less predictable than it did not that long ago.
Dammit. I hate feeling this way.
And I know I’m not alone.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the two things we always control: our attitude and our actions. That reflection came from the internal reality many of us are living: fatigue, overwhelm, and the constant pressure to hold things together for others.
This time, though, my thinking feels slightly different. This time, I’ve been reflecting on what our external world is asking of us as educators and leaders.
Our students are watching the same news.
Our staff are carrying the same uncertainty.
Our communities are processing the same grief, anger, and confusion.
Whether we name it out loud or not, the emotional climate outside our schools inevitably finds its way inside them.
What I’m struggling with most is not just the chaos itself, but the growing sense that we are normalizing harm, especially toward those who have historically been denied dignity, and calling it leadership, policy, or progress.
That’s the part that feels hardest to sit with.
Not just that terrible things are happening, but that they are happening in ways that strip people of their humanity. That fear, exclusion, and dehumanization are increasingly treated as acceptable, necessary, or inevitable. That entire groups of people, often people of color and those already marginalized, continue to carry the greatest burden of decisions they did not make and systems they did not design.
And as an educator, as a leader, as a human being, I don’t know how to make sense of that without naming it for what it is: a moral failure.
Which brings me to a simple but powerful idea I’ve been sitting with:
Calm is not passive. Calm is a choice. And right now, calm is an act of moral leadership.
Choosing calm doesn’t mean ignoring what’s happening. It doesn’t mean minimizing pain, injustice, or fear. It doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine.
It means deciding, on purpose, how we will show up in the middle of it.
It means pausing before reacting.
It means noticing our own emotional state before walking into a classroom, a meeting, or a hard conversation.
It means responding in ways that are aligned with our values, not just our stress.
In moments of collective anxiety, regulated adults become anchors. Not because we have all the answers. But because our presence signals safety, steadiness, and care in a world that feels increasingly unstable.
For me, choosing calm looks like a few small but intentional practices:
Taking a few slow breaths before responding to difficult news or emails.
Naming what I’m feeling instead of suppressing it.
Asking myself, “What does this moment need from me, reaction or leadership?”
But I’m realizing more and more that calm isn’t just personal. It’s relational. It’s cultural. It’s contagious.
A calm teacher creates space for students to regulate.
A calm administrator sets the tone for an entire building.
A calm leadership team models what it looks like to navigate uncertainty without spreading it.
A calm adult creates the conditions for civil discourse.
In practical terms, this might look like:
Creating space in staff meetings to acknowledge emotional load, not just operational updates.
Giving students language to name what they’re feeling and reassurance that their reactions are valid.
Slowing down decisions when emotions are running high.
Leading with curiosity before judgment.
Remembering that connection often matters more than correction.
In times like these, calm becomes more than a coping strategy. It becomes a form of ethical resistance to chaos.
Not loud resistance. Not performative resistance. But quiet, steady, human resistance.
The kind that says: We will not let fear define how we treat one another.
The kind that says: We will not normalize harm, even when it becomes common.
The kind that says: We will lead with dignity in a world that too often forgets what dignity means.
We don’t control the headlines. We don’t control the systems. We don’t control everything happening around us. But we do control how we show up inside our classrooms, our offices, and our communities.
And right now, choosing calm is not just a personal practice.
It may be one of the most meaningful moral decisions we make as leaders.
Be Great,
Dwight
What We Control: Attitude and Action in a Chaotic School Year
There are days this year when I’ve had to remind myself that experience doesn’t make you immune to overwhelm, it simply teaches you how to respond to it.
When I describe this as a chaotic year, I’m not talking about the calendar turning. I’m talking about the lived reality many educators experience during the school year itself.
Some school years feel heavy in ways that are hard to name, and over time, that heaviness can start to feel normal. Not because we’ve lost our skill, passion, or commitment, but because the noise around education keeps getting louder while the margin to breathe gets thinner.
In Be GREAT: Five Principles to Improve School Culture From the Inside Out, I return often to a simple truth:
When the school year feels chaotic, those two anchors matter more than ever.
Before diving into what we can control, it’s important to name what we often can’t: underfunding, mid-year policy changes, staffing shortages, and systems that ask us to do more with less. These aren’t personal failings; they’re structural realities that require collective advocacy and systemic solutions.
But even within these constraints, we retain agency over how we show up each day. This isn’t about accepting broken systems; it’s about protecting our capacity to keep fighting for better ones.
Below are three realities contributing to that sense of turbulence or overwhelm, along with grounded ways to steady ourselves. This isn’t about fixing everything. It’s about choosing one small action that helps us stay aligned.
1. Competing Demands With No Clear Finish Line
Initiatives stack. Emails multiply. The work never really “ends.”
Whether you’re an administrator juggling district mandates or a teacher balancing lesson planning with data collection, when everything feels urgent, it doesn’t just create stress; it quietly trains us to feel guilty, no matter how much we give.
During winter break, I rested. But I also reflected on the year and felt an overwhelming sense of guilt that crept in anyway:
* Not supporting my team enough.
* Not creating innovative programs quickly enough for students struggling in their Career Tech pathways.
* Not accomplishing goals fast enough to positively impact staff and students.
I imagine classroom teachers feel similar guilt:
* Not reaching a struggling reader.
* Not providing meaningful feedback quickly enough.
* Not creating the engaging lessons they envisioned.
I realized my thinking had narrowed. My mind was playing tricks on me. So I intentionally interrupted the spiral and did two small things to regain control:
* Name what matters today. Not everything deserves your energy. Choose one action that aligns with your values and do it well.
* Shift from reaction to intention. Pause before responding, not to disengage, but to act with purpose instead of pressure.
Progress isn’t measured by how much you carry. It’s measured by how intentionally you carry it. A trusted friend helped me reframe my thinking and refocus on the present, where action actually lives.
2. Emotional Fatigue From Carrying Others
Educators don’t just teach content or lead teams. We absorb stress, stories, and worry often without a place to set them down. Over time, this can lead to emotional numbing, even for people who care deeply. We don’t need to solve this all at once. Two ways to regain control:
* Separate responsibility from ownership. You can care deeply without carrying everything alone.
* Practice emotional hygiene daily. Small, consistent habits protect your energy far better than occasional resets.
Your compassion is a strength, and protecting it is an act of leadership, not selfishness.
3. Disconnection From Purpose
When policies change, narratives shift, or progress feels slow, even the most committed educators can quietly wonder, “Does this still matter?”
That was me over the break. Instead of denying it, I chose to lean into the question and address it.
Left unexamined, that question can harden into cynicism, not because we don’t care, but because we care so much. And clarity doesn’t always come before action. Two ways to regain control:
* Re-anchor to your “why.” The phrase may feel overused, but it still matters. Jimmy Casas reframes this by encouraging leaders to “return to the interview chair”: to remember the beliefs, hopes, and commitments that first called us into the work. Purpose isn’t found in outcomes; it’s found in moments of impact.
* Let actions rebuild belief. Motivation often follows action, not the other way around. Progress, even small progress, increases hope and decreases anxiety.
We don’t rediscover purpose by waiting for clarity. We rediscover it by showing up aligned.
Chaotic school years don’t test how much we can endure. They reveal what we stand on. When the noise grows louder, return to what you control:
* Your attitude- How you interpret the moment
* Your actions- How you choose to respond within it
This doesn’t minimize the challenge. It reclaims your agency. As my good friend Tom Cody often says, “If you can’t get out of it, get into it.”
Getting into it means staying present, choosing intentional responses over reactive ones, and aligning daily actions with deeper purpose, even when the system around you feels chaotic.
Within the next two weeks, consider one quiet question:
“What is one attitude I can choose and one action I can take that helps me leave today aligned, not depleted?”
Sometimes, that’s more than enough.
Be Great,
Dwight
Three Stories That Remind Us Why We Teach
By the time winter break arrives, many educators aren’t just tired, but they’re carrying things. Heavy decisions. Hard conversations. Students we can’t stop worrying about, colleagues we want to reach but don’t quite know how.
This season invites rest, but it also invites remembering.
Stories matter because they reconnect us to purpose without pretending the work is easy. They remind us that meaning is often found not in the outcomes we measure, but in the people we continue to show up for. Here are three stories that continue to remind me why teaching and leading in schools still matter deeply, even in the hardest seasons.
Story One: “Every Kid Needs a Champion”
Years ago, I watched Rita Pierson deliver her now-iconic TED Talk, Every Kid Needs a Champion. I’ve revisited it many times since, and it still tugs at my heart.
Her message wasn’t about instructional strategies or school improvement plans. It was about belief. About adults choosing to stand in the gap for students, even when those students push back, shut down, or test every boundary. Her talk reminded me of a student I met in his freshman year of high school.
About twenty-three years ago, a young man stopped by my office and was pretty distraught. I was his ninth-grade Global Studies teacher, and then I became his assistant principal. I had a strong relationship with him and his family. His mom also called me to let me know he might stop by because “things are pretty bad.” So, I wasn’t surprised by his visit, but I was surprised by what he shared.
He was done: done with school, done with home, done with everything. We talked for about half an hour, and he seemed to feel better, but when he left my office, he didn’t return to class; he left the building…
I called his mom to let her know how our conversation went, and she told me she’d let me know if he shows up. A few minutes later, she called to let me know he was home.
Thankfully, he returned to school the next day and finished the year. Before summer break, he gave me a handwritten note thanking me for taking the time to listen. In that note, he shared that he had considered harming himself and that our conversation helped him see things just a little differently.
Stories like this remind me that we may never fully understand the impact of a single conversation, but students remember who showed up when it mattered most.
Years later, on April 6, 2024, I ran into his parents at Home Depot. They shared incredible news: their son was thriving and nearly finished with his doctoral studies. We shared a long hug and a few tears!
Story Two: The Student Who Didn’t Give Up
A couple of years ago, I watched a student in one of our Career-Technical Education programs struggle academically, behaviorally, and emotionally. The CTE lab instructor tried everything to help this young man: tough love, coaching, peer mentoring, parental involvement, you name it. To say he was frustrated with this student is an understatement.
However, instead of labeling the student, he chose persistence.
He didn’t lower expectations; he increased support. He created notecards to help him learn parts. He asked the student to come to the lab during study hall for additional help. He allowed a couple of test retakes after some further review sessions, and he partnered with an Intervention Specialist to learn about other accommodations.
The young man drove a beater of a car that needed a lot of work. The instructor helped him fix his car, which reinforced the skills he was trying to teach him, and he helped him land a job in his chosen industry. Months later, he graduated from his school and earned an industry credential, which helped him get a promotion.
What stood out most wasn’t just the outcome, but the educator’s refusal to separate skill-building from dignity.
Story Three: Choosing Connection When Convenience Would Be Easier
This story isn’t about students, it’s about adults.
One of my executive team leaders consistently chooses conversation over avoidance, growth over comfort, and trust over tension. Whether addressing curriculum concerns, procedural challenges, or personnel issues, her approach is steady: listen to learn, seek the back story, and collaborate toward solutions.
When she first arrived in our district, she heard many negative comments about our application process, which was pretty new. Since it fell under her supervision, she met with those who had concerns, met with members of our Business Advisory Council, and gathered feedback from our building leaders. After months of information gathering, we created a new application process that was much more widely accepted and, most importantly, better for students.
Because of her approach, difficult conversations that could have fractured trust instead became opportunities for alignment and growth.
As you head into break, give yourself permission to rest. Disconnect where you can. Refill what the semester has drained. When you return, recommit to one student or one colleague you’ve been struggling to reach.
Rest now. Then carry one name with you, and begin again.
Wishing you and your family a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a Happy New Year.
Be Great,
Dwight
How’s Your Emotional Hygiene?
Yesterday afternoon, I facilitated a session for our lead mentor educators and their mentees about mental health awareness; however, instead of calling it that, I started with a question: “How is your emotional hygiene?” That raised some eyebrows!
We’ve all heard it before: “Educator mental health matters.” The message has been repeated so often that it’s become background noise in our profession. Yet educators continue to report higher levels of job-related stress than the general workforce, with 23% of teachers considering leaving the profession in the 2022–2023 school year, citing stress and workload as significant factors, according to RAND Research.
It’s time to reframe this conversation. Instead of talking about mental health as an abstract concept, let’s talk about emotional hygiene.
Over 100 years ago, people started practicing personal hygiene, and life expectancy rose by 50%. We brush our teeth, wash our hands, and shower daily, not because we’re in crisis, but because we understand these practices prevent problems and maintain our physical health.
What if we approached our mental health the same way? According to the World Health Organization, mental health is a state of well-being in which an individual realizes their own abilities, copes with the everyday stresses of life, works productively, and contributes to their community.
Just as we don’t wait until our teeth are rotting to start brushing, we shouldn’t wait until we’re burned out to practice emotional hygiene. To be clear: these practices are about prevention and maintenance, not treatment of severe mental health conditions that require professional support.
Yes, we need systemic changes: better pay, funding, reasonable workloads, support, equity, and access. But we can’t wait for those changes to take care of ourselves. While we continue advocating for structural improvements, we can implement strategies that help us thrive within current realities.
There are some practices we can do that are entirely within our control, and each creates measurable changes in brain chemistry and function. The science is solid, but what matters most is consistent practice. Here are practical strategies you can implement immediately, and remember to choose what works for your context. Think of these not as additions to your already full plate, but as replacements for less effective coping strategies:
1. Practice Gratitude
Research shows gratitude practices rewire our brains to notice positive experiences more readily. You can start with three specific things you’re grateful for each day, and be concrete rather than general.
2. Engage in Physical Activity
Exercise releases endorphins and reduces cortisol levels, literally changing your brain chemistry. You don’t need a gym membership: take the stairs, park farther away, or do jumping jacks or lunges during your prep period or break. Even 10-20 minutes makes a measurable difference. Yesterday, one mentor shared that she started walking right after school, while others mentioned daily walks with their dogs. Other mentions include cycling, rock climbing, yoga, and Orange Theory. The responses were as diverse as the group! The key is that each person found what works for them.
3. Journal Regularly
Writing helps process emotions and reduces rumination. Try a simple format:
*What went well today?
*What was challenging?
*What will I do differently tomorrow?
The act of putting thoughts on paper helps your brain organize and release them. I notice a difference in how I feel after I write versus typing.
4. Create Something
Creative activities activate different neural pathways and provide a sense of accomplishment outside work pressures. Whether it’s cooking, drawing, music, or crafting, creation gives your mind a restorative break from problem-solving mode. During our session, participants mentioned everything from shooting pool for 20-30 minutes a day, woodworking, pottery, and knitting, to one who recently published a book! It was exciting to hear so many creative outlets!
5. Prioritize Sleep
Sleep deprivation impairs emotional regulation and decision-making, both of which educators need most. Aim for 7-9 hours and create a consistent bedtime routine. Your students and colleagues deserve a well-rested educator, but more importantly, you deserve quality rest.
6. Do Good for Others
Acts of kindness release oxytocin and create positive social connections. It doesn’t mean taking on more work; it could be as simple as bringing a colleague coffee or sending an encouraging text to a friend.
7. Maintain Healthy Boundaries
Boundaries aren’t selfish; they’re necessary for sustainability. Practice saying, “I need to think about that” instead of saying yes right away. Protect your time as you would your resources and supplies, because both are finite.
8. Reduce Social Media Usage
Excessive social media use correlates with increased anxiety and depression. Try designated phone-free times, especially before bed and first thing in the morning. Replace scrolling time with one of the other emotional hygiene practices, and you’ll likely find you have more time than you thought. One of the mentees mentioned how she changed her phone screen to a pink scale, which reduces her desire to click on specific apps, and that she set up a “do not disturb” block during work hours.
You might be thinking, “These seem obvious.” You’re right, but common sense isn’t always common practice. The research shows that consistency matters more than complexity, and small, regular actions create lasting change.
Remember, positive relationships with students and colleagues are cited as protective factors against burnout. You don’t have to practice emotional hygiene alone. Share these strategies with your team, try them together, and support each other’s efforts. While these strategies help all educators, we also recognize that some face additional stressors that require both individual resilience and systemic support.
Start small. Pick one or two strategies that resonate with you and commit to them for two weeks. Just as you wouldn’t skip brushing your teeth because you’re busy, don’t skip your emotional hygiene because your day is packed. Our profession will always have challenges, but we can control how we care for ourselves amid them. It’s time to make emotional hygiene as routine and non-negotiable as washing our hands.
Your mental health isn’t a luxury; it’s a professional necessity. And, as with all good hygiene practices, consistency matters more than perfection. If you’d like a copy of the slide deck, email me, and I’ll send it within 24 hours!
Be GREAT,
Dwight
Three Ways to Talk About Representation Without Losing Your Audience
After my post in October, The Power of Representation: Why CTE Needs More Black Male Leaders, several colleagues reached out with a question:
“How do we talk about representation in our current political and cultural climate?”
It’s a fair question, and a necessary one. Representation is an important conversation, but how we talk about it often determines whether people lean in or tune out.
If we want to create schools and workplaces where everyone feels seen, valued, and supported, we must engage hearts before habits. Here are three strategies to help you keep the conversation productive and inclusive.
Start With Shared Values, Not Statistics
When conversations begin with data or disparities, some listeners feel defensive or fatigued before they even hear the heart of the message. Instead, start by grounding the discussion in shared goals: trust, belonging, and student success. Respond with something like, “We all want students to feel seen and supported. Representation is one of the ways we help make that happen.”
This reframing moves the focus from difference to connection. It helps colleagues see that talking about representation isn’t a political issue, but a professional one rooted in care and belonging.
In my district, we’ve had several cohorts over the last few years to discuss this topic and related topics, which have fostered greater understanding, openness, and a change in mindset among some participants.
Use Stories That Humanize, Not Generalize
Stories build bridges faster than statistics. Sharing a real moment, like when a student said, “I’ve never had a teacher who looks like me before,” or when you noticed a colleague light up after being recognized, reminds people that representation is personal, not theoretical. Human stories invite empathy and lower defenses. They transform abstract ideas into human impact. Representation isn’t about who’s in charge, it’s about what students see as possible.
Extend Curiosity Instead of Correction
When someone says, “I don’t see color,” resist the urge to correct immediately. Instead, get curious: “That’s interesting, can you tell me what that means to you?”
That question opens a door instead of closing one. Most people mean they value fairness or equality. You can affirm that intention and gently expand it:
“I love that you want all students treated fairly. I’ve found that recognizing our differences actually helps us do that more effectively.”
Curiosity communicates respect. It keeps dialogue alive long enough for reflection and growth to happen.
Final Thought and Challenge
Representation conversations don’t have to divide, but they can deepen understanding when led with empathy, clarity, and courage. We can’t change minds by silencing voices. We change them by listening, connecting, and telling better stories.
This month, talk with one colleague about why representation matters, and focus on what you both value for your students. Because progress begins with one respectful, honest conversation at a time.
Be Great,
Dwight
The Power of Representation: Why CTE Needs More Black Male Leaders
Black male educators represent just 1.3% of all educators nationwide, according to 2023 data from USAFacts. In Career-Tech Education (CTE), that number is even smaller. When students walk into our schools and labs, they’re not just learning skills; they’re looking for reflections of what’s possible. Representation matters, especially in CTE, where pathways to meaningful careers are being defined every day. Yet, too often, our leadership ranks don’t mirror the diversity of our classrooms.
As a Black male leader new in CTE, I’ve seen firsthand how visibility changes the conversation. When young men and women of color see someone who looks like them leading, teaching, or advocating, it reshapes what they believe is achievable. It says, “You belong here, and you can lead too.”
Representation isn’t just about optics; it’s about outcomes. Diverse leadership broadens perspective, builds trust, and drives innovation. It creates psychologically safe spaces for students and staff to bring their authentic selves to work and learning. When leadership teams reflect the communities they serve, students experience a stronger sense of belonging, and belonging fuels engagement, effort, and success.
Seeing and valuing diversity isn’t about division; it’s about ensuring every student feels visible, supported, and valued. That’s what all great educators want; for every learner to know they belong and can thrive. Representation strengthens culture the same way good instruction strengthens learning, it meets people where they are. The impact goes beyond students. Representation among educators and administrators influences hiring, curriculum design, disciplinary practices, and professional culture. It ensures more voices are at the table when decisions are made about equity, access, and opportunity.
I’ve attended local, state, and national education conferences for decades, and one of the first things I do is look for people who look like me. And when we make eye contact from across the room, we acknowledge one another with a head nod, and if we’re in proximity, we shake hands and introduce ourselves. This happens because representation is so rare. I became a CTE educator in 2019–2020 and started attending CTE-specific conferences. The representation is even less than at comprehensive education conferences. I often wonder why, and, more importantly, how we can expand representation in CTE leadership, not only in Ohio but nationwide.
Before we can expand representation, we must acknowledge the systemic obstacles that keep Black males from entering or advancing in CTE leadership. These include limited advancement pathways from industry to education, salary gaps that make leadership positions less attractive than industry roles, and workplace cultures that may feel unwelcoming or unsupportive. Additionally, factors such as socioeconomic background, geographic location, or being a first-generation college graduate can compound these barriers, making the path to leadership even more challenging.
So, how do we expand representation in CTE leadership?
Mentor and Sponsor Future Leaders
Leadership doesn’t happen by accident; it’s cultivated through support and exposure. I am thankful for the many mentors I encountered throughout my career who recognized my leadership potential and began guiding me toward formal leadership positions. Identify emerging educators of color and intentionally mentor them into leadership pathways.
Challenge the Narrative
Too often, we view CTE through a narrow lens as a “second choice” rather than a first opportunity. However, this lens has widened considerably over the last decade. As more diverse leaders step into these spaces, the story of CTE changes. Representation isn’t about who’s in charge, it’s about what students see as possible.
Recruit Beyond Comfort Zones
Seek candidates through affinity networks, historically Black colleges and universities (HBCUs), and community organizations. There is a rich history of CTE at HBCUs. Representation starts with intentional recruitment. Engage parents, community leaders, and industry partners as ambassadors who can help identify and encourage potential leaders.
Create Visible Leadership Moments
Representation isn’t only positional; it’s relational. Provide opportunities for staff and students of color to lead meetings, present at conferences, and represent their programs publicly.
Model Inclusive Leadership Daily
Representation alone isn’t enough. It must be paired with practices that honor every voice and perspective. Authenticity builds trust; trust builds culture.
Track Progress Meaningfully
Establish concrete metrics to measure success: track leadership pipeline development, monitor retention rates of educators of color, and survey staff about their sense of belonging. What gets measured gets improved.
Representation isn’t about filling quotas, it’s about fulfilling potential. Nor is it exclusionary. Because opportunities are open to Black male educators, it doesn’t mean those same opportunities are closed to others. It simply means expanding the candidate pool to be intentionally inclusive, something that historically has not been the case. Every student deserves to see themselves in the leaders guiding their education. Every educator deserves to feel they belong in the spaces where decisions are made.
When we make room for more Black male leaders in CTE, we don’t just diversify leadership, we expand what’s possible for everyone.
Who around you needs to see you lead, and who needs you to help them step forward next?
And one more reflection to consider:
Think about a time when you saw someone succeed who reminded you of yourself. What did that moment tell you about possibility?
Be Great,
Dwight
Leading Through Loss and Uncertainty
In education, uncertainty has become the norm, with budget cuts, shifting expectations, and community pressures. Loss is real: of staff, resources, and sometimes even trust. For leaders, these seasons can feel overwhelming. By leader, I’m not only referring to positional leaders, but also to any adult who serves students and/or staff, regardless of position or title.
But here’s what I’ve learned about navigating these challenges: the measure of leadership isn’t avoiding uncertainty; it’s choosing how to respond in the midst of it. When we can’t control circumstances, we can control our presence. There are many opportunities for leadership to rise to the occasion. During one of my most challenging years as a principal, we had to inform twenty-five people in my building that they would be laid off at the end of the year, but we had to do so mid-year. Morale sank. Students felt the tension. Parents wondered what was happening. Uncertainty, insecurity, and survivor’s remorse impacted culture and climate.
I wanted to fix everything, but I couldn’t. Instead, I focused on what was still in my hands: how I showed up each day. I made it a point to be visible in classrooms, share gratitude notes, and listen to staff concerns without rushing to solve them all. Over time, the mood shifted. We acknowledged the reality of the situation. We didn’t erase the loss, but we regained trust and steadiness. I won’t pretend this was easy or that I had extra time. Most days, I was stretched thin like everyone else. But small, intentional actions, even two-minute hallway check-ins, made a difference.
As I reflect on that experience, I think about the steps we took to provide stability and regain trust. We weren’t perfect; we made mistakes, but we acted with intention. As I share the strategies we implemented, consider what you’ve done and experienced, and what you would do differently.
We focused on showing up steady. Even when we didn’t have the answers, we did our best to remain a calm presence by communicating clearly, listening empathetically, and managing our emotions. It wasn’t until summer that we were able to address the toll managing others’ emotions took on us. When we showed up steady, we could be an anchor in rocky waters.
Beyond showing up steady, name the loss honestly. Avoiding the truth erodes trust; acknowledging it builds it. I remember one of my veteran teachers stopped by to chat after school and provided some sage advice. She said she understood what I was trying to do, but it wasn’t landing because some felt I was ignoring the reality of job loss. She encouraged me to honestly acknowledge the reality and let people lean into their grief. Great advice.
While acknowledging difficulty, it is crucial to celebrate resilience. Point out examples of staff and students adapting with courage. We carved out just five minutes at staff meetings for shout-outs, including verbal praise, written praise, and whole-staff recognition. Sometimes it was the only positive moment in a tough week.
Finally, in the midst of all the uncertainty, remind people what remains unchanged. The one thing that is certain during uncertainty is change, so it’s essential to communicate and remind others what things remain the same: which classes people will teach, the schedule, job responsibilities, your vision and mission, for example.
As you think about what you’ve experienced, how do you want your staff, colleagues, and students to experience your leadership during uncertain times?
Be GREAT,
Dwight